Bio: 1829--1900, American editor and author, b. Plainfield, Mass., grad. Hamilton College, 1851, LL.B. Univ. of Pennsylvania, 1858. After practicing law in Chicago, he was associate editor and publisher of the Hartford, Conn., Courant. The many travel articles he contributed to the Courant and to Harper's Magazine were later published in book form. Warner edited the American Men of Letters series, for which he wrote a life of Washington Irving, and the Library of the World's Best Literature (30 vol., 1896-97). He wrote several novels and collaborated with Mark Twain on The Gilded Age (1873). My Summer in a Garden (1871) is one of several collections of his polished, charming essays.

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Baddeck and That Sort of Thing
It would be unfair to hold you responsible for these light sketches of a summer trip, which are now gathered into this little volume in response to the usual demand in such cases; yet you cannot escape altogether. For it was you who first taught me to say the name Baddeck; it was you who showed me its position on the map, and a seductive letter from a home missionary on Cape Breton Island, in relation to the abundance of trout and salmon in his field of labor.
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My Summer in a Garden
MY DEAR MR. FIELDS,--I did promise to write an Introduction to these charming papers but an Introduction,--what is it?--a sort of pilaster, put upon the face of a building for looks' sake, and usually flat,--very flat. Sometimes it may be called a caryatid, which is, as I understand it, a cruel device of architecture, representing a man or a woman, obliged to hold up upon his or her head or shoulders a structure which they did not build, and which could stand just as well without as with them.
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That Fortune
On a summer day, long gone among the summer days that come but to go, a lad of twelve years was idly and recklessly swinging in the top of a tall hickory, the advance picket of a mountain forest. The tree was on the edge of a steep declivity of rocky pasture-land that fell rapidly down to the stately chestnuts, to the orchard, to the cornfields in the narrow valley, and the maples on the bank of the amber river, whose loud, unceasing murmur came to the lad on his aerial perch like the voice of s... more info>>
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The Golden House
It was near midnight: The company gathered in a famous city studio were under the impression, diligently diffused in the world, that the end of the century is a time of license if not of decadence. The situation had its own piquancy, partly in the surprise of some of those assembled at finding themselves in bohemia, partly in a flutter of expectation of seeing something on the border-line of propriety.
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